Page 25 of Thorns from the Fall

“If either of them gets hurt, you know what happens to him,” I say. His mouth tightens before he tugs his helmet on.

He takes off a second later, and I follow behind. I don’t have my bearings yet, so I don’t know exactly how close I am. I don’t want Emile to catch my scent, so any time the wind blows, I make myself small and try to get behind a tree. I lose sight of Roman when he turns into the back alley behind his home—or at least I think that’s where he is. I reach for my phone to check themap, but realize I didn’t bring it. Instead, the heavy weight of my last resort is cold as my fingertips graze the metal.

Tiny, it was easy to slip the Beretta into my pocket when I’d grabbed my coat. It’s already fired one shot tonight, so I have seven more chances to hit Emile square in the face with a silver bullet.

I’ll have to be precise, and I’ll have to get fucking lucky.

But I breathe deep and square my shoulders, because what choice do I have?

It’s the aftermath that I’m truly frightened about. Roman will likely forget about Remy and kill me on sight if I’m successful. While Bjorn may have been no father to him, Emile is more than an uncle to Roman. Remy hadn’t been lying when he said they were close. Their relationship isn’t exactly normal—but what could be between a man born during the Feudal era and another born in the 1980s? Emile is still the closest thing to a dad Roman has.

If I kill his father figure, Roman will never cooperate with me—especially if he still has Sasha. Briefly, I consider that all of this might be Roman’s plan all along, but I dismiss it after a moment. He hasn’t been in contact with Emile, and I still have Remy. Never mind that I don’t think he’d do this—humiliation will be key when Roman finally comes after me like an avenging god. Everything feels far too messy and convoluted for Roman.

Roman doesn’t create chaos. He fixes it.

I pick up my pace, only allowing myself to run until his motorcycle cuts off. After that, I slow down, making sure every sense is attuned. If I hear a shout or a scream, I’m running. If I smell Nico or Emile, I’m backing off and waiting for some kind of signal.

But without my phone, that’s a trash idea. I can’t even call Margot to use her as my eyes. Glancing up at the moon, I consider saying a prayer to Sasha’s chosen deity, but decideagainst it. I don’t know what I’m doing, and it will probably do more harm than good.

Finally, I see Roman’s motorcycle at the end of the alley, so I know I’m close. And instead of staying put and waiting for everything to fall apart, I dip between two sets of attached greystones. Cutting through to the front yard, I decide it’s best to have the element of surprise.

Because of the wind, I can pinpoint exactly who is in Roman’s backyard—which thankfully means Emile won’t be able to detect me. Just as I’m walking up the sidewalk, cautious and quiet, I hear Roman’s voice raise in argument.

I double check the magazine in the Beretta, and I begin to climb.

10

ROMAN

“Uncle,I need you to pull the knife away from his throat,” I say, hands raised as I step farther into my backyard. The space between us isn’t physically large, but the difference between who we were and who I am now is daunting. There has always been competition, delicately nurtured by my father to keep both of us under his thumb, but now Emile is a threat. The blade he holds against Hale’s skin might as well be to Remy’s neck—and he’s doing it willingly.

What he doesn’t seem to understand is that if we lose Remy, all of this will have been for nothing. There will be no redemption for me if my brother dies. Even if he lives, this mess is still my fault. None of this would have happened if it weren’t for me—if it weren’tfor her. The fact my uncle has a tenuous hold on my own autonomy is because of her too, and I wish I could take back every pitiful word I said when I swore my oath to him.

I have asked very fucking little of you my entire life. Give me this one thing. Give me a chance to say goodbye before he kills her.

I think of how desperately I drank from my uncle’s arm, making a deal that fucks me over, just so I could see Gwyn. Thebeating I’d endured afterward from his bloodsworns had meant very little when the alternative was her dying without knowing the truth. That the fucked up shit I said to her in the cemetery was a lie.

I’d told her she was too broken and not worth the risk. It turns out everything with Gwyn is a risk, and who knows if she was ever broken at all.

Swearing an oath to my uncle had been worth the eternal bullshit I’d have to put up with, as long as I got a chance to tell her how I felt while attempting to free her.

And now, I can’t wait to see the light leave her eyes as she dies.

Emile is sitting on the edge of my deck with Hale on the ground between his knees. My uncle is twitchy and on edge, and I don’t take my eyes off the blade in his hand. His demeanor is reminiscent of a time he’d fought my father after my mother’s death, and it had ended with Emile leaving for a year. It was the worst year of my life without having him as a buffer to my father’s violent disregard. My uncle is unpredictable in this state, and I really don’t fucking need that.

His knife digs into Hale’s flesh, and if he doesn’t stop fighting him, he’s going to slit his own throat. Unfortunately, despite Hale’s role in this grand deception, I need him alive. If he dies, so does my brother—and I’ll have truly lost everything.

“Uncle,” I warn. He’s nicked the sorcerer’s skin, and I can smell his blood. Depending on how the wind is blowing, it’s only a matter of time before Gwyn smells it too.

And I have no idea what she’ll do.

My brother is the reason for every one of my actions, and he’s back from the dead. I won’t fucking risk losing him despite my fondness for my uncle. But at this rate, I might end up losing them both. I’d once thought of Gwyn as a grenade—one hand on the lever with the other on the pin—but I think she’s more like alandmine. One wrong move, one wrong step, and she’s going to kill me and everyone unlucky enough to be nearby.

“Not until she’s done,” he says, gesturing toward a woman I don’t recognize. She’s in the darkened corner of the backyard, walking slowly in a circle while blood drips from her palm. The grass sparkles as the snow attempts to stick, and she shudders as a gust of wind hits her.

When she turns and the moonlight hits her face, I recoil.

Caitriona Graham, friend or foe to my father depending on the day, grins at me when she notices my attention. She’s a witch-for-hire, and I can feel the energy crackling from her from several yards away. Powerful is an understatement. If the woman ever bothered with the Institute, she’d be a world-renowned Sorceress. But as far as I know, she’s never had a need for it.

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